


Jump Into the Fire

by Sugarpuffqueen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awesome Bobby Singer, Awesome John Winchester, Dead Mary Winchester, Family History, Gen, John Winchester's A+ Parenting sort of, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Fic, Kid Sam Winchester, Mild Language, Parent John Winchester, Pre-Canon, Sick Dean Winchester, Sick Sam Winchester, Sickfic, like pre A+ parenting but it's kind of there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24410605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarpuffqueen/pseuds/Sugarpuffqueen
Summary: John Winchester knows his wife's death wasn't because of natural causes, but he doesn't know what to do about it... that is until a stranger claiming to be an FBI agent shows up at his door asking questions. Unfortunately he can only do so much when his kids are sick.
Comments: 30
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic almost five years ago. Actually, I finished this fic almost five years ago, but then started revising it and... stopped. Now, after telling myself over and over that I really needed to go back and finish my revisions, I finally did!
> 
> This should be mostly canon-compliant, though it's been a long time since I've rewatched, so please excuse any errors.
> 
> Also, the title is from a Harry Nilsson song of the same name.
> 
> Russian translation by Olga can be found here: https://ficbook.net/readfic/9554172

John Winchester grunted as his six-year-old son’s foot made contact with his ribs. He had been annoyingly close to falling back to sleep, and could now just barely restrain himself from cursing under his breath at the kid. It wasn’t Dean’s fault, really. The boy couldn’t help being sick. John carefully tried to adjust the small (but astonishingly strong) body of the blond-haired, freckled child beside him so that his feet were no longer at rib-cracking level. But as soon as he let go of the warm little figure, the boy rolled and squirmed his way back into position. John sighed resignedly and rolled his head on his pillow to look at the bed on the other side of the room. Sammy, his younger son, was sprawled across as much of that bed as his two-year-old body could cover, his mouth slightly open as he drooled on the sheets. He, at least, looked peaceful. John glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand between the two beds through bleary brown eyes. Had it really only been an hour since Dean had awoken him? John had been dreaming about his late wife’s death and was thankful for the reprieve until he’d seen the anguish in his son’s tear-streaked face.

“What’s wrong, kiddo?” He’d asked in his whiskey-gruff voice, sitting up.

“My head hurts real bad,” the boy had whimpered before crawling onto his father’s lap and planting his thumb firmly in his mouth. That had worried John more than anything else. Dean hadn’t sucked his thumb since well before Mary died a year and a half ago. So, he’d taken his temperature, which at 102, was almost as disheartening as the wide-eyed look of pure misery the child had given him when he had to remove his thumb from his mouth to chew up the children’s fever reducer John handed him. Then he’d situated his son in his own bed (the boys shared the other one), all while still slightly drunk from the half bottle of Jack he’d downed barely two hours earlier.

John had been so hopeful that the beginning of summer vacation would mean fewer days taking care of sick children. Dean had started kindergarten last fall, and along with his exposure to other children came exposure to all kinds of illnesses. And of course, anything that Dean caught Sammy was sure to get shortly after. John estimated that at least one of his boys had been sick no less than once a month since the beginning of the school year. A few times, they’d barely recovered from one illness when another one began. And now, a week after the last day, it looked as though that pattern wasn’t going to stop anytime soon. Being a single parent was hard enough with all of the getting up early, preparing meals, dropping off and picking up, parent-teacher conferences, and of course, staying home with sick kids. But add to that the mysterious--and frankly bizarre--circumstances of Mary’s death and the fact that the police had decided it didn’t need further investigation (leaving John to figure it out himself) it was a miracle he was getting any sleep at all. 

Mary had been beautiful. Most men who are in love think about their wives this way, but with Mary it really had been true. She’d had long, shiny blonde hair that always smelled like lavender, and kind, gray-blue eyes with eyelashes for miles. Her smile could probably have stopped wars, and her figure was petite but strong. And she’d always been so good with the boys: caring and patient, and fiercely protective. Perhaps it was that protectiveness that had done her in. She’d gone into Sammy’s nursery to check on him when he was six month old and died in flames on the ceiling, her abdomen sliced open, blood dripping on the carpet until she’d been consumed. There’d been almost nothing to bury because of the fire, which the authorities had attributed to an electrical spark since they couldn’t find any evidence of an accelerant. John had no idea how she’d gotten on the ceiling, but he did know that the fire wasn’t electrical. He’d seen the flames erupt from Mary’s body, too hot and fast for that kind of fire. But when he’d tried to explain that to the police, and the fire department, and his lawyer, they’d all told him he was delusional. He was under too much stress and didn’t remember properly. Maybe he should take some time off and get some rest.

But John had been a marine. He’d seen a lot of terrible things during his time in Vietnam and could tell the difference between stress-induced delusions and reality. So he hadn’t rested. Instead, he’d searched for answers. The library had contained nothing but dead ends, and everyone he tried to talk to either thought he was crazy, or sounded crazy themselves. Then he met Missouri Moseley, an honest-to-god psychic. She hadn’t been able to give him all the answers, but she’d at least given him a foothold. And she’d advised him not to move back into the house, which wasn’t too hard for John, since he hadn’t been able to imagine himself living where Mary had died. After staying with the co-owner of his mechanic shop for a couple weeks, he’d moved into a two bedroom apartment with the boys. For the first few nights, Dean and Sammy had slept in the bedroom across the hall from John’s. But with the boys in the other room he hadn’t been able to keep a close eye on them and, worried that whatever had killed his wife would come back for his kids, he’d moved their bed into his room shortly thereafter. 

~*~*~*~*~

John couldn’t remember falling asleep, but he knew when he felt the weight of one of his children crawling onto his chest that it hadn’t been long enough. He didn’t move right away, hoping against hope that whichever boy was on top of him would get the hint and go back to sleep. As he reluctantly became more awake, he realized that he could still feel the pressure of Dean’s head against his left shoulder. So it must be Sammy sitting on him now, and Sammy was stubborn. He wouldn’t give up trying to wake his father for anything (except maybe Dean). Truth be told, the boy reminded John of himself more than he would have liked to admit. He had an inkling that their stubborn natures might clash as the boy got older, but for now Sammy was content to use his when he wanted to get up, or when he didn’t want to go to bed. 

“Daddy,” Sammy’s voice broke the relative silence. Too much to drink and not enough sleep made it sound shrill, and John felt it like razors in his ears. He flinched. “Why Dean’s in youw bed?”

Oh yeah, and Sammy was  _ really _ stubborn about questions. He was the most curious kid John had ever met. Admittedly, he hadn’t spent a lot of time with children before Dean had been born, but he would put money on the idea that Sammy had asked more questions than Dean’s whole kindergarten class put together. And he’d only been speaking full sentences for a little over six months. 

John really just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. Dean finally seemed to be done kicking him, and it was Saturday: the day of sleeping late and hanging out in pajamas. Didn’t Sammy know that today was a day for cartoon watching and sugary cereal? He already knew how to turn on the TV. Couldn’t he just sneak into the living room, turn the volume way down and sit too close like a normal kid? But, no. Even if Sammy had thought of that, his question was more important to him. What had happened that made Dean leave Sammy and go sleep with Daddy? It didn’t happen very often.

John was stuck. He knew that answering one question would surely prompt another, and their conversation might wake Dean. But not answering at all would mean hearing the same question over and over until Sammy became upset, and that would almost definitely wake Dean. He sighed. His throat felt like sandpaper as he spoke, “Because, he’s sick, Sammy.”

“Dean gots a tummy ache?” Sammy asked. 

John could feel his son’s breath against his cheek. He cracked an eye open to see that the toddler’s concerned face was mere inches from his own. He ran a rough hand through his thick, dark brown hair in an attempt to wake himself a little better and gave a resigned answer, “No, he has a headache. So we have to be quiet.”

“Oh,” Sammy whispered loudly. “Daddy?”

“Yeah, Sammy?” John sighed again.

“Can I has stawbewwy ceweal?” the boy asked in the same stage whisper.

John frowned. He couldn’t remember buying a berry-flavored cereal, so he wasn’t sure what his son was talking about. Of course, it was possible that one of the boys had snuck something into the shopping cart the last time they’d been at the grocery store. It wouldn’t have been the first time, so he said, “We’ll see.”

He didn’t really care what kind of cereal Sammy ate, but he knew if he said “yes” and then they didn’t have the right kind, he’d have a very upset toddler on his hands. At least Sammy wasn’t asking him to cook, John thought. Of course, he didn’t know that other kids got pancakes, or eggs and bacon on the weekends. He probably didn’t even know those foods existed. John wasn’t much good in the kitchen, so he sustained himself and his sons on cereal, canned soup, and sandwiches.

“Come on, Sammy,” John grunted as he carefully extracted his arm from underneath his sleeping six-year-old. “Let’s go find you something to eat.”

Sammy climbed down from the bed as John sat up, and the boy practically skipped down the hall as his father followed him to the kitchen. He rubbed the back of his neck as he passed the bathroom door on the left. The front door was situated down a very short hallway just after the bathroom. On the other side of that hallway was a small, linoleum galley with a fairly large carpeted area wrapped around it that served as both dining and living room. The TV was in the far corner with an old couch against the wall separating the living room from John’s bedroom. His second-hand recliner served as a room divider between the TV and eating areas. There was a scrubbed wooden table against the wall of the other half of the L with three horrible orange-and-yellow-flower upholstered chairs surrounding it. 

Sammy bounded into the tiny kitchen and pulled at the refrigerator door. He wasn’t strong enough to open it himself, but he sure tried. John shuffled into the room and picked the boy up effortlessly from behind. 

“C’mere and show me what cereal you want first, champ,” He yawned, setting his son on the counter just below the cupboard where the cereal was kept and opening the door. Sammy reached up and grabbed a box, hugging it to his chest. John took the box from his son and stared at it for a few seconds. “Corn Flakes? Are you sure?”

Sammy nodded, his mop of dark hair flopping. John looked at the other boxes of cereal in the cupboard just in case. There was Cap’n Crunch and Cocoa Krispies, neither of which was strawberry flavored.

“Alright,” he shrugged and set his son in his booster seat at the table before pouring the cereal into a plastic bowl with some milk. But when he set it in front of the toddler, he received Sammy’s patented puppy-dog look and knew, with a sinking heart, that this was not what the boy was expecting. 

“I want stawbewwy ceweal,” Sammy whimpered at his father. 

John was too tired for this. He covered his face with his hands and huffed loudly, trying to keep himself calm. He knew there was no use arguing with a two-year-old, but he was losing his patience.

“We don’t have any,” John answered through clenched teeth. This was apparently the wrong thing to say, because Sammy’s eyes welled up and his lip started quivering.

“I want stawbewwy ceweal,” he cried louder, kicking his little feet in frustration.

“Sammy, we don’t have any,” John tried again, fighting even harder to stay calm. “We have Corn Flakes, Cap’n Crunch, and Cocoa Krispies. If we had strawberry cereal, I’d give it to you, but we don’t!”

“Yeah-huh!” the boy wailed. “I want stawbewwy ceweal!”

“Sammy,” John said, trying a different tactic. “Sammy, listen to me. You have to quiet down, bud. Dean’s sleeping, remember?”

“No, I’m not,” came a weak voice from the hallway. John turned to see his older son rounding the corner into the dining room. His freckles were more pronounced than usual against his pale face and the apples of his cheeks were pink with fever. The crease in his brow told John that he was still in pain, but with far more patience than either he or Sammy would ever be able to muster, Dean approached his brother and asked, “What’s wrong, Sammy?”

Sammy sniffed and swiped at his eyes, repeating his plea. “I want stawbewwy ceweal.”

Dean nodded and John watched as the blond boy walked into the kitchen and took a container of fresh strawberries from the fridge. With difficulty, he opened the lid and placed a handful of the fruit in Sammy’s cereal bowl before turning back and replacing the berries. Sammy pulled the bowl happily toward himself and began to eat.

John stared in disbelief. His youngest son loved fruit, but he rarely bought any because it was expensive, was too much of a bother to wash and cut, and went bad too quickly. He’d completely forgotten that Dean had made him buy the berries. And when he saw how roughly they were cut, he realized that the boy must have done it himself as a treat for his brother. John barely woke up early enough to get Dean to school, let alone early enough to fix breakfast for his boys. He had other things to focus on, like researching what killed his wife. Dean must have been making strawberry cereal for his little brother all school year without John even knowing. He approached his son in the kitchen and palmed his forehead, half out of affection and half to see if he was still feverish. 

“Thanks, kiddo,” he mumbled. “Are you hungry?”

Dean shook his head almost imperceptibly, that miserable look from last night back on his face. John picked him up and the boy immediately buried his head in his father’s shoulder. The heat radiating from his son was worrisome. His t-shirt clung to him with sweat, so John said, “Let’s get some more of that medicine and you can go back to bed, okay?”

“Okay,” Dean whispered, wrapping an arm around his dad’s neck. John carried him down the hall, rubbing his back soothingly. By the time he set the boy on the bed, his thumb was back in his mouth and silent tears were spilling down his cheeks. John had had the foresight to bring the acetaminophen into the bedroom after Dean’s first dose last night, so he opened the bottle and handed the boy two of the chewable tablets. He crunched them between his teeth a couple times and swallowed, pulling a face before returning his thumb to his mouth.

“Let’s get that sweaty t-shirt off of you and then you can lie down again,” John said, pulling Dean’s hand away from his mouth once more. The boy sniffed as the t-shirt was peeled off of him and scratched at his chest. Little red bumps were forming on his torso. At first, John thought the rash was probably because the kid had been wearing the wet t-shirt too long. But the more he stared at it, the more he thought he might not be so lucky. 

“Dean, stop scratching for a minute and let me see,” John said, turning on the bedside lamp and gently coaxing his child closer. 

The boy did as he was told. John ran a hand over his son’s chest and asked, “Does this itch?”

Dean nodded, tears still leaking from his large, green eyes. His thumb made its way back to his mouth as John cursed under his breath.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” the boy asked quietly through his mouthful of thumb.

“I think you’ve got chicken pox,” John sighed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure how often I was going to update. But I figured, since I'm done writing and revising, I may as well update daily and not leave you all hanging. Enjoy!

As it turned out, a boy in Dean’s class had been sent home on the last day of school because of what Dean called “chicken pops”. The misnomer would have been utterly adorable if it hadn’t been for Dean scratching so much that John had to give him a dose of children’s benadryl on top of the acetaminophen. He couldn’t tell if it stopped the boy’s itching, but it did knock him out, which he supposed did the trick anyway. He had a vague notion that letting his son scratch the sores was a bad idea, though he couldn’t remember why it was bad, or even where he’d gotten that information. But it seemed like the kind of thing Mary would have said, so he didn’t question it.

While Dean was busy sleeping, John had decided to get a little research done. Normally the boys spent the morning playing in the spare room or watching TV, and at first, Sammy didn’t seem to mind playing by himself. But he’d barely been in the toy room for a half-hour before he wandered out to where John sat at the table, poring over a stack of library books. 

“Whatchya doin’ Sammy?” John sighed as the boy approached him.

Sam didn’t say a word as he climbed into John’s lap and buried his head in his father’s t-shirt. This was not normal behavior for Sammy. If he needed comforting, he usually went to Dean, and he very rarely went quiet. John pressed his fingers to the toddler’s head and, noticing how warm Sammy was, swore under his breath. John dosed him with acetaminophen, gave Sammy what he hoped was a decent hug, then tried to deposit him back in the spare room to keep playing, but Sammy wasn’t having it. He started wailing and refused to let John put him down for more than a few minutes at a time, one pudgy hand clutching his head. 

That had been two hours ago. Sammy was going hoarse from all the screaming, but he wasn’t letting up. He kept wriggling around, his face pressed into John’s chest, spreading snot across his shirt as he turned his head from side to side. He pushed away from John, then clung tightly to him, his little hands clasping and unclasping the fabric of his dad’s sweat-drenched and snot-covered t-shirt. The ex-marine was a muscular guy. He worked on cars for a living, so he was used to long hours of physical labor, but even he had to admit that carrying a squirming toddler non-stop for two hours was tiring. His arms felt like lead, and now his own head was pounding. He was sure he wasn’t coming down with the illness, too, (he distinctly remembered having chicken pox as a kid), and instead attributed the headache to too much whiskey and not enough sleep. Still, Sammy’s continued crying wasn’t helping the situation, and he was seriously considering dosing his youngest with benadryl, too, even though the tell-tale rash hadn’t shown up yet. 

John was just trying to decide on the best way to retrieve the medication from the bedroom without waking Dean when there was a heavy rap on the door. He turned his head sharply, staring at the thing as though he were trying to see through it, subconsciously tightening his hold on his son as he tried to remember if he was expecting anyone. He didn’t usually have visitors, and as far as he could remember there wasn’t any maintenance scheduled. Sometimes Michelle, a nineteen-year-old Haskell student who lived down the hall and babysat the boys, would stop by to drop off a plate of cookies or a homemade pie. But she usually worked on the weekends, and besides, her knock was much daintier than the authoritative pounding he’d heard.

“Sshh, Sammy,” John hissed, pressing his fingers to his son’s mouth. Sammy quieted abruptly, probably shocked by his dad’s sudden change in demeanor more than anything, as John strode to the door and cautiously looked through the peephole. A man with a beard and a suit stood there, his sandy hair looking like it had recently been covered by a hat. John opened the door a few inches, not enough to let the stranger in, but enough to assess the man a little better. He was about half-a-head shorter than John and looked like he was uncomfortable wearing a suit, like maybe he didn’t do it all that often. Still, his straight back and stony expression conveyed authority.

“Yes,” John said sternly.

“Are you John Winchester?” The man asked.

“Who wants to know?” John narrowed his eyes. Sammy, who was still concealed by the door, started to fuss loudly.

The man reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled a badge out, which he held up to the gap in the door. John only got a short glance at it before the man was putting it back in his pocket and saying over Sammy, “Tom Willis, FBI. Mind if I come in?”

“Yeah, I do,” John said, tightening his hold on his son, who continued to cry. “My kids are sick. Chicken pox.”

“Already had it,” the man answered determinedly. “I just need to ask you a few questions about your wife.”

John’s eyes narrowed even more as he snarled, “What do you know about my wife?”

“Quite a bit, actually. I know she died in a fire that you say was too hot and fast to be electrical, that she was cut and bleeding and no one has an explanation for it, that you’re not satisfied with how the police handled the situation. I’m here to figure out if her death was connected to the recent attacks in town. Maybe if it is, we can both get some answers today,” the man said calmly. “Now, can I come in?”

John hadn’t heard of any recent attacks. Then again, he hadn’t been paying much attention to the news, too caught up in figuring out what had happened to Mary to care. And while the prospect of finding out new information was tempting, he didn’t trust this guy. He may be over tired and slightly hungover, but John Winchester’s instincts were still good, and something told him Tom Willis was lying. John reached around the corner for the holy water he kept in a small bottle on the kitchen counter and, squeezing it in Tom Willis’ face, said, “No demon’s coming in here!”

The FBI agent blinked deliberately, spit some water out of his mouth, and slowly wiped it out of his face with a rough hand. John scowled. The man hadn’t started smoking when he got a face full of holy water, which meant he wasn’t a demon, but that didn’t mean he was telling John everything, either. 

The man fixed John with a calculating stare and quietly asked, “What do you know about demons?”

“Enough,” John replied shortly. 

It had taken a lot of time, research, and conversations with Missouri to finally admit Mary had most likely been killed by one. John hadn’t wanted to believe it at first, even though what he’d seen that night was unbelievable. Eventually, though, he’d run out of feasible natural explanations, and he’d been forced to concede her death had been demonic. Most people found the notion delusional, but Tom Willis didn’t seem fazed by it at all. Instead, he mumbled, “Doubt it,” as though to himself, one eyebrow arching for a fraction of a second.

“Look,” the FBI agent whispered, leaning in so his face was as close to John’s as it could get through the crack in the door. “If you wanna protect your kids you won’t go shoutin’ about things like that. Now if you wanna know some stuff about some stuff, I can help ya, but you gotta let me in so we can talk in private.”

John gave him a hard look, recalculating his initial reaction. He still thought this man wasn’t telling him everything, but now he thought maybe it was because he didn’t want the rest of the apartment complex to hear them talking about demons. So, without taking his eyes off the man, John took a step back and opened the door, allowing the agent to come in.

He watched as the man’s eyes roved around what he could see of the apartment, vaguely wondering what he was looking for before Sammy’s wailing amplified. John turned to his son as the shorter man began walking toward the living room, still looking around. The boy’s bottom lip was sticking out, quivering as he squirmed uncomfortably. John shifted him to the other arm and followed Agent Willis to the living room. He sat on the couch as the other man pulled John’s beat up arm chair toward the coffee table, which was home to an empty bottle of Jack, a dirty glass, and an assortment of papers and books. When John tried to set Sammy down next to him, the child let out a shrill shriek and tried to stand on the lumpy cushions so he could climb back into his father’s lap.

“He’s too hot,” Tom Willis said. “Have you given ‘im anything for the fever?”

John turned his head slowly to give the agent an incredulous look. How dare this guy push his way into his home asking questions about his dead wife and then tell him how to take care of his kid?

“Yes,” John answered through gritted teeth.

The sandy-haired man didn’t look the least bit abashed by John’s tone. “Give ‘im some ice to chew on. That should cool ‘im down.”

By now, Sammy was practically hyperventilating as he clung to his father, his hair completely soaked with sweat and his face red. John didn’t exactly want to give this guy the satisfaction of listening to him, but after a few seconds, he realized he had to do something or Sammy might just pass out. So, he carried his son to the kitchen and filled a plastic cup with ice from the freezer. Agent Willis waited patiently as John sat back down and coaxed the toddler to calm down enough to take an ice cube and start sucking on it. Eventually, Sammy settled against his dad’s chest, his small hand wrapped around a chunk of ice. As he sucked on one end, cold water dripped onto John’s already wet shirt, but if the cold water bothered him, he wasn’t letting on.

“Now,” John started, looking up from his son. “What do you know about my wife?”

Tom Willis’ eyes snapped back to focus on John. He’d been gazing down the hallway. “Before we get to that,” he said, “I think we have a visitor.”

John looked around and Sammy gave a watery smile as Dean’s face appeared around the corner. His cheeks were still pink with fever and a few red bumps had begun to form on them.

“What do you need, Dean?” John asked tersely. He still didn’t trust this guy and would have preferred neither of his sons were present for their discussion. 

Dean crept out from around the corner and, shy from being sick in front of a stranger, whispered, “I’m thirsty.”

“Where’s your cup?” John asked in a clipped tone. Dean pointed down the hall, looking down at his toes, which were curled in the carpet.

John stood from the sofa with Sammy and his bowl of ice, saying, “C’mon.”

Dean followed closely behind his father and watched as he set Sammy down on the boys’ bed. John straightened up and looked apprehensively at the toddler for a few seconds, but when not so much as a whimper escaped his youngest--who was now enjoying a second ice cube--he gestured Dean over and set him on the bed beside his brother. Then, lowering himself to his older son’s level, he said, “Now listen carefully: I want you to stay here with Sammy. Watch him. Do not leave this room until I come get you. It doesn’t matter what you hear or how much Sammy fusses. You two are to stay in here. Do you understand?”

Dean nodded, his expression abnormally serious for such a young child. John gave his blond hair a quick tousle, then stood and grabbed the sippy cup from the night stand. He quickly filled it in the bathroom sink and went back to the bedroom where he handed it to Dean. The boy gave him that serious look again. John nodded, then closed the bedroom door behind him without a word. 

John returned to the living room and plopped on the couch with a huff. He ran a large, calloused hand over his face before resting his elbows on his knees and fixing Agent Willis with an intense (if not slightly red-eyed) stare. “So. How does the FBI deal with demons?”

The man in the armchair gave John an incredulous look. It lasted long enough to make John a little uncomfortable, and then irritated. He was just about to say something when the man shook his head and asked, “You actually expect the FBI to believe in demons? I ain’t FBI, ya idjit.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say that I'm so happy people are reading this little fic :) You're all the best!

John was dabbing every spot he could find on Dean’s body with calamine lotion while the boy sat on the toilet seat cover. Since he’d been asked to watch Sammy, the child had become much quieter about his own condition. He’d been spending almost all of his time in the past couple days with his little brother. It had actually been really helpful, because it gave John lots of time to do research. He’d called in to work citing his sick sons, but he really hadn’t needed to do much for them since Dean had taken over as caretaker. Really, the only interactions he had with his kids now was when they needed a dose of medication. Otherwise, he spent his time poring over books that the man posing as an FBI agent had left him. All thought of sleeping and eating had flown out the window once the man--whose real name was Bobby Singer--had explained who he was and what he did. In fact, the only time John left his post in the living room was when Dean interrupted him. The child had shown up about a half-hour previously to say that he couldn’t stop Sammy’s crying and maybe he needed something for the itching. John had watched for a few seconds as his blond son scratched his own stomach and arm before deciding that the boys were probably in enough discomfort to warrant a few minutes of his time. Apart from knowing quite a lot about demons and other nasty supernatural creatures, Bobby had had some sound advice about caring for chicken pox. He’d left John with the calamine lotion and instructions to soak the boys in a lukewarm baking soda bath everyday until the itching stopped.

“How’s that, kiddo?” John asked, dabbing lotion on the last red bump he could on his son. “Better?”

Dean nodded as John rested the back of his fingers on his son’s forehead to check his fever before the child slid off the toilet. He was rewarded with another dose of acetaminophen, which he chewed and swallowed quickly before asking, “Can I go play with Sammy, now?”

Sammy had yawned his way through being covered in the pink lotion, so John said, “Sammy seems pretty tired. Why don’t you see if you can get him to lie down for a nap? Then you can play by yourself for a little bit while I work on some things.”

“I don’t wanna play by myself, Daddy,” Dean answered. “Can I just take a nap with Sammy?”

John raised an eyebrow. Dean had never asked to take a nap in his life. But ever since John had asked Dean to take care of his brother, the boy had barely let Sammy out of his sight. He obviously took his role as big brother very seriously. So, John said, “Yeah, if you really want to.”

As Dean trotted down the hall to collect his brother, John put away the lotion and acetaminophen and went back to his books. They were all open and sprawled around the living room. Anyone else would surely think it was a huge mess, but John knew where everything was. He picked up a pen and the leather-bound journal that was sitting amidst the tomes and went back to his note-taking.

Bobby was pretty sure he was looking for a demon, but the more research John did, the more he was beginning to suspect they probably weren’t dealing with the same demon that had taken his Mary. She had died pinned to the ceiling of Sammy’s nursery, engulfed in flames. These new attacks were different, though. For one thing, the fires didn’t start on the ceiling. Nevertheless, John persevered. Looking for connections between the attacks and Mary’s death gave him an excuse to learn more about what really happened to her. It’s possible Bobby had known he’d need time to do that learning, because he said he would call if he hit a dead end with the witnesses and family members, but the phone hadn’t rung since their conversation two days ago.

That was until now. John kicked a pile of books over in his haste to get to the receiver in the kitchen. Still, dodging books and furniture took longer than he’d anticipated and by the time he reached the phone, it had stopped ringing. He cursed under his breath and was just about to dial Bobby’s hotel when Dean came hurrying down the hall. John hadn’t even thought of the phone in the bedroom, but Dean stopped just short of the kitchen tile and said, “Daddy, there’s a man called Bobby on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”

“Thanks, buddy. I’ll take it in here.” John ruffled his son’s hair then picked up the receiver. “Hang up the phone and go back to bed.”

Dean nodded before scampering back down the hall. John watched him disappear into the bedroom before saying, “You got something, Bobby?”

“Yeah,” Bobby answered. “I think I know where the demon’s gonna be. I’m goin’ after ‘im tonight, so if you’ve got any last minute info to give me, now would be a good time.”

John sighed. “Nah, I didn’t find much. But I’m pretty sure it’s not the same son-of-a-bitch that got Mary. Not sure if that’s good or bad at this point.”

“I kinda figured as much,” Bobby said. “Look, if ya find anything else, I’ll be in my hotel room gettin’ ready until dark. You can call me here.”

“Okay,” John nodded before hanging up. 

He went back to his books in case there was anything else he could find before tonight. A few minutes after he’d gone back to poring over a book on different creatures with fire abilities, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. A quick glance told him it was Dean. He figured the kid had gotten bored of lying in bed with his brother and was probably coming out to fix himself a snack. John kept reading, not paying much attention to his son until the boy was right in front of him. 

The child sniffed quietly but didn’t say anything. John looked up at him and was surprised by the expression on his son’s pale face. It was like the boy was in some sort of trance, his eyes glassy and unfocused, tears leaking down his cheeks. And his face wasn’t just pale; it was white as paper. The kid was shaking visibly, his little hands balled into fists at his sides. Seeing his son like that scared John more than anything he’d read in all of Bobby’s books. He dropped the one he was holding and rushed through the teetering piles to his son. 

“Dean,” he said, grabbing him strongly by the shoulders and kneeling in front of him. “What’s wrong? Is Sammy okay?”

Dean’s eyes finally focused on his father and he let out a sob before throwing his arms around the man’s neck. 

John startled, but caught his son as the boy pleaded, “Don’t leave, Daddy! D-don’t leave! I c-can’t take ca-are of Sammy by mmmyself. You can’t g-go!”

John sighed, kicking himself for not listening for the click of the bedroom receiver when he was talking with Bobby. Dean must have listened to their conversation. He squeezed his son, resting his hand against the back of his head. He was feeling feverish again. John hushed Dean and said quietly, “What are you talking about, kiddo? I’m not going anywhere.”

He gently pried his son away from him so he could look at him properly again. He didn’t look quite so paper white now, but Dean refused to look back at his father, his green eyes trained on the carpet. John watched as the boy scratched his arm absentmindedly, sniffing.

“Dean, look at me,” John said, lifting his son’s chin until the child’s eyes reluctantly snapped to his father’s. “What’s going on?”

Dean squared his little shoulders as though steeling himself and said, “I heard you and that man talking.”

“You mean Bobby? You shouldn’t have been listening, Dean.”

Dean’s lip quivered, but he didn’t look away from his father as he broke into sobs, his fists shaking with either anger or fear. John couldn’t tell. He had to hand it to the boy, though, he didn’t back down as he explained, “B-bobby’s going after sssomething like th-the thing that k-killed Mommy and you c-c-can’t go with b-because what if y-you die, too? I c-can’t take care of Sssa-mmy b-by myself!”

John lifted his son and carried him to the couch, rubbing his back as he carefully stepped over the books and sat down. Dean sobbed so hard he choked and began coughing into his father’s shoulder, his hands vice-like on the back of his flannel shirt.

“Sshhh, kiddo, it’s okay,” John crooned, thumping Dean on the back until his coughing subsided. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just looking some stuff up for Bobby. That’s all.”

The boy sniffed and pushed himself off John’s shoulder enough so he could look him in the eye. “You promise?”

John gave his son a reassuring smile and said, “Yeah. I promise.”

Dean nodded and rested his head against his dad’s chest, his thumb finding its way into his mouth as it had a few days ago. John knew he had limited time to find information for Bobby and he desperately wanted to keep searching the books. But he also knew if he didn’t take the time to calm Dean now, the boy would almost certainly interrupt him again and again. So, he rocked the child until his breath stopped hitching and looked down to find his eyes closed and his mouth slackened, thumb held loosely in place by his teeth. John carefully rose and carried his son back to the bedroom, lying him next to his brother. Neither boy stirred as he ran his hand over each of their heads before leaving the room and closing the door behind him.

~*~*~*~*~

John let the water out of the tub, watching as his younger son ran butt-naked out of the bathroom after his brother. He’d just given the boys their baking soda bath and was now eager to get back to his research (though he supposed he’d better make sure Sammy at least had a diaper on). He still hadn’t found anything helpful and he estimated there was only about an hour before dark. He hurriedly dried his hands and made his way down the hall to the spare room where he could hear his sons talking quietly.

“Alright, you two. Time for bed,” John announced, striding into the room and bending down to pick Sammy up.

“Nooo,” the boy whined.

“But Da-ad,” Dean pleaded, one hand holding a toy car just above the small track in the middle of the room.

“No buts,” John said sternly as he wrestled to keep Sammy on the ground to put his diaper on. “The cars will still be here tomorrow morning.”

John glanced over at Dean, who looked like he was ready to start bargaining. The man fastened the last adhesive strip to the diaper and let the toddler go, giving his older son a foreboding look that shut him up before he could start. Instead, he dropped his car and took his brother’s hand, saying dejectedly, “C’mon, Sammy.”

Sammy picked up one of the cars in his free hand and said, “I take dis one wiff, okay Dean?”

Dean gave his father a questioning look. John shrugged, so the older boy turned back to his little brother and said, “Yeah, Sammy. You can bring that one.”

John followed his sons across the hall to the bedroom where he stood in the doorway and said, “Dean, put some pajamas on your brother. Good night, you two.”

“Good night, Daddy,” the boys said in unison before John closed the door behind him. Dean would get the light once he’d put clothes on his brother. 

The boys were used to putting each other to sleep. John had heard them at it countless times. Sometimes Sammy would talk about his day until his words gave way to little baby snores, or Dean would tell him a story, or they’d pretend they were on a spaceship or a pirate ship, or cowboys around a campfire until one or both of them finally went silent. Most nights, Dean would stay awake until Sammy fell asleep. John knew, because once the younger boy’s high pitched voice went silent, he’d hear his older son humming one of the songs Mary used to sing until he fell asleep, too. 

Tonight, though, he had more important things than pouring himself a nightcap and listening to his sons sooth each other. Tonight, he forgot about the whiskey and picked up the book on fire creatures.

The sun was just sinking below the silhouette of houses when John swore under his breath and leaped to his feet. He stumbled through the teetering books toward the kitchen, the book still open in his hand. He wedged the receiver between his shoulder and ear before quickly dialing the hotel number Bobby had left.

“Thanks for calling Sleep Inn, this is Kathy. How can I help you?” a bored female voice answered.

“I need room 212,” John said.

“Just a moment,” Kathy said slowly. There was a pause, and then the line started to ring. John listened impatiently as it rang three more times, muttering under his breath, “Pick up you son-of-a-bitch, c’mon.”

When the phone rang twice more without an answer, John slammed the receiver down and ran his hand through his dark hair, thinking. He couldn’t let Bobby go after this thing without knowing everything, so he picked the phone back up and dialed another number.

“Hey, Michelle. It’s John. I know this is late notice, but do you think you could come watch the boys for a few hours?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one's a little long (relatively speaking), but save the longest for last I guess...? 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's been reading, bookmarking, and leaving kudos and comments. It's such a wonderful feeling to see people interacting with the very first fic I've posted here. You're all awesome!
> 
> There is some violence in this chapter, but nothing worse than you'd see on the show. Just in case (and because it's topical right now) CW for strangulation.

John’s black 1967 Impala screeched to a halt in the hotel parking lot before he got out and jogged to room 212. He pounded on the door, barking, “Bobby! C’mon, Bobby, I need to talk to you!”

There was no answer. John pressed his ear to the door and listened for any indication that the man might still be in his room, but he wasn’t hopeful. The sun had set completely and the moon and stars were shining, though dimmed by the yellowish glow of street lamps.

“Shit,” John cursed before punching the door one last time. 

He looked around the parking lot. His was the only car there apart from an old van near the vacancy sign which he assumed belonged to the desk attendant. It definitely wasn’t the car Bobby had been driving when he’d come by the apartment. John jogged to the lobby door before yanking it open and approaching the font desk.

“Can I help you?” the young woman sitting behind the desk looked up from her magazine. She blushed and gave John a shy smile when their eyes met.

“Yeah,” John said dismissively. “Can you tell me which way the guy in room 212 went?”

“The FBI agent?” the attendant asked, still blushing. “She pointed east and said, “He went that way about a half-hour ago.”

John was already at the door when she called after him, “Do you need a room or anything?”

“No thanks,” John waved as he left, jogging back to his car.

The Impala sped down the road, John searching for any sign of the rusty 1974 Cutlass Supreme Bobby had been driving, hoping he hadn’t turned down a side street. He had no idea where Bobby had gone, just that he said he’d figured out where the creature would strike next. 

But just as John was nearing the edge of town and thinking he’d have to double back, he saw the car parked in the driveway of an old, two-story farmhouse. He peeled in, barely able to slow down before turning, and skidded to a halt just a few inches behind the bumper of the Cutlass. John killed the engine and jumped out. There were no lights on in the house and he wasn’t sure if he should knock on the door or check the perimeter. He couldn’t detect any signs of movement from inside the house, so John made a quick decision to search outside first. He moved quietly around the house, silently cursing himself for not grabbing his Smith and Wesson as he’d left the apartment. He knew from his research that a standard-issue military pistol wouldn’t do much against the supernatural, but it would give him peace of mind.

As he rounded the corner to the back of the house, he could just make out a figure crouching near the cellar door. He approached cautiously, unable to tell if it was Bobby or something more sinister. A twig snapped under his boot and the figure’s head turned and John realized it was wearing a baseball cap. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding when Bobby stood up, whispering, “John? What the blazes are you doin’ out here?” 

John was pretty sure he saw the other man’s face pale (though it was hard to tell in the dim moonlight) as he added, “You didn’t bring those boys of yours with ya?”

“No,” John shook his head, speaking just as quietly. “They’re home with a babysitter. Listen, Bobby, I had to warn you. It’s not a demon.”

John explained what he’d found in a quick whisper. When he was done, Bobby stared at him, dumbfounded for a moment before he found his voice, saying, “An ifreet? You mean a fire djinn? What the hell is a fire djinn doin’ in Kansas?”

“I don’t know but the book said it could only be contained with magic,” John said, giving the other man a look of pure disbelief. “Do you know any magic?”

“Well, I know a few spells,” Bobby answered. “But I dunno how to contain an ifreet off the top of my head. Do you have the book with ya?”

“It’s in the car,” John nodded, trying not to let the fact that magic was real derail him.

He had only walked a few paces toward the corner of the house to retrieve it when he heard a strangled yell behind him. John whipped back around in time to see Bobby being dragged into the cellar by a large, strangely smoky figure. He took a step back toward the house before realizing that he had nothing to help the hunter with. He needed a plan and a weapon, fast.

John turned again and sprinted toward the cars, ripping the Impala’s passenger side door open and grabbing the book from the floor where it had landed as he’d pulled into the driveway. He did a sweep of his vehicle but abandoned it quickly when he saw that there was nothing else inside that would help. (Not that he had expected there to be. He didn’t make a habit of leaving weapons in the car.) He hoped Bobby had something in his as he ran to the driver’s side door, praying it was unlocked. Luck seemed to be on his side for once. He wrenched the door open and looked around. Fast food wrappers and empty bottles littered the floor, but nothing that looked like it could kill a fire djinn. John spotted the key still in the ignition, grabbed it, and ran around the car. He had to squeeze between the cars to get to the trunk, but once it swung open, he couldn’t help gasping. There in the back of this beat up Cutlass was an arsenal. John blinked, but made himself focus again as he opened the book to the pages on ifreets and, by the dim light of a distant street lamp, began grabbing what he would need.

Once he had everything helpful he could find, John made his way stealthily back around the house. The cellar door was ajar. His heart leaped into his throat as he realized the ifreet wasn’t even concerned about him coming after his friend. He swallowed hard, thinking back to his military training. Stay calm. Assess the situation. Execute the mission.

As John crept down the cellar steps, he could hear Bobby struggling and cursing, which gave him a pretty good idea where the other man was even though he couldn’t see him through the darkness. John stopped, crouched near what he hoped was the bottom of the stairs and let his eyes adjust to the pitch blackness. Bobby was tied to a large pipe directly in front of the stairs. The pipe went up the wall and connected to another one near the ceiling that ran the length of the room. There was a hazy form near the far wall to his left, its outline indistinct and ever-changing. John raised the sawed-off shotgun he’d found in the trunk of Bobby’s car and took aim, but as he squeezed the trigger, the smoky figure dematerialized and the wall was peppered with silver and lamb’s blood.

Before John could even look around, the gun was wrenched from his grasp and he was flying across the cellar, a deep, ethereal laugh filling the small space. He grunted as his back slammed against a set of wooden shelves near Bobby, half-empty paint cans and glass jars raining down on top of him as he slid to the floor.

“John!” Bobby yelled before turning to the fire djinn and spitting, “You son-of-a-bitch!”

Lights popped in front of John’s eyes and he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. But before he could even think about getting back up, he felt a searing, smoky something around his neck and his nostrils filled with the smell of charred wood and burning flesh. It was a smell he knew well: every time he dreamed of Mary, it lingered in his nose for hours. Gagging, he clawed at what he now suspected was supposed to be a hand around his neck as he was lifted to his feet. But there was nothing to grasp--only smoke where there should have been solid flesh.

“You hunters are all the same,” an airy, raspy voice said in front of John. He could feel the fire djinn’s hot breath in his face, though he didn’t see any sort of mouth. “Brave to the point of stupidity. Silver and lamb’s blood may be lethal to my lesser counterpart, but you’ll have to try harder to get rid of me.”

John felt the ifreet’s hand tighten around his throat. He struggled against the creature, punching wildly, but his fists just went through it’s hot, smoky body, searing them. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bobby trying to work something out of the back pocket of his jeans. Hoping it was something that might help them both, John struggled even harder, trying to keep the ifreet’s attention on him. It was working. As he fought, the creature’s grip tightened even more, until it was cutting off John’s windpipe. 

He continued to struggle, but he was quickly losing the battle. His lungs burned as he tried to gasp for air, still flailing against the fire djinn. The dark room started to spin around him as his vision tunneled and all he could see in front of him was the creature’s indistinct face. Still, he continued to thrash until he heard Bobby give an almighty yell, and a few drops of something that felt like hot rain landed on his head. John didn’t see what happened next, but he was suddenly dropping to the floor, air rushing into his starved lungs. He laid in a heap, coughing, his fingers clutching at his chest as he gulped breath after breath, the graying around the edges of his vision slowly dissipating.

He heard a struggle, then a deafening blast from the shotgun. John lifted his head to see a hole rip through the middle of the smoke figure. The ifreet roared in pain, flames rising from it angrily. The hole slowly began to close itself, but the thing was writhing, giving Bobby time to rush over to John and crouch in front of him, saying, “C’mon, dammit! We gotta get outta here!”

John made a gravelly noise in his throat. It wasn’t exactly words, but it was enough to let Bobby know he was aware of his surroundings. He looked up into the other man’s face, but his eyes widened as he saw the ifreet, fully formed behind the hunter and poised to strike. Bobby whipped around, shotgun at the ready, and blasted the ifreet again. He held the gun on the creature but spoke to John. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah,” John croaked, using the shelf behind him to pull himself up unsteadily.

When he was mostly upright, Bobby shoved the shotgun into his hands, saying, “Keep shootin’ it!”

John cocked the weapon and aimed at the doubled-up figure of smoke and flame. Its huge glowing eyes were fixed on Bobby, who was kicking the rusted pipe he’d been tied to.

“What are you doing, hunter?” it growled, advancing. John shot it again, pushing it back and making it cry out once more.

“C’mon,” Bobby snarled, kicking the pipe again with the heel of his boot. “You stupid,”--kick--”fuckin’”--kick--”thing!”

John shot the creature one more time, but the pipe was slow to give way. The fire djinn cranked its flame up as it yelled in agony, catching the wooden work bench beside it. John cocked the shotgun and glanced at Bobby as the creature took a slow, painful step toward him. And suddenly something clicked into place and John understood what the hunter was trying to do.

There was one shot left. John kept the weapon trained on the ifreet, but he didn’t fire, letting it regroup and advance until it was within arm’s reach. Then, he pointed the shotgun straight above him and squeezed the trigger. Liquid exploded from the pipe, showering them all with hot water. The ifreet let out a strange, airy scream as water hit smoke, turning instantly to steam. John pushed his wet hair out of his face and watched the figure writhe and shrink to nothing. 

He felt a strong hand on his shoulder and heard Bobby’s voice nearby yelling, “Let’s get outta here before the whole place burns down!”

John staggered as he pushed himself away from the wall. He would have landed face first on the concrete floor if the hunter hadn’t caught him and slung his own arm around his back, half-dragging him out of the burning cellar. Both men coughed hoarsely as they gained the grass of the back yard and Bobby allowed John a minute’s rest, his hands on his knees, gulping fresh air.

“C’mon,” Bobby grated out. “We gotta get outta here before that thing pulls itself back together.”

John followed him unsteadily toward the cars, asking, “You mean it’s still alive?”

“Unless that was some kinda magic water, yeah, it’s alive,” Bobby said, opening his car door. “Might take a while, but once it’s on its smoky feet, it’s gonna be pissed. You alright to drive?”

John opened his own car door. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“The owners of this place aren’t gonna be happy,” Bobby sighed, looking at the smoking house. “I told ‘em I was in the same FBI training unit as their dead son. Only reason they let me kick ‘em out for the night.”

He shrugged and got into the beat up Cutlass before following John back to his apartment. John wasn’t exactly sure why Bobby was coming with him, but he didn’t mind. He knew he’d have to say something to his kids, and it might be easier if someone who’s probably told lots of people about supernatural creatures was there. 

When they got to the apartment, John hadn’t even pushed the door closed behind him and Bobby when he heard the scampering of little feet and felt something wrap itself around his waist. John let out a quiet “oof” and Bobby raised a hand to his back to steady him with a snort of laughter. 

“Hey, kiddo,” John greeted in a throaty whisper, grasping the boy under his arms and hauling him up. “Why are you up?”

Michelle rounded the corner, probably about to tell him exactly why his six-year-old was out of bed, but her jaw dropped. Her eyes raked over John, who realized he must look like a mess, then over Bobby, who John knew was soaking wet and covered in ash. If he looked half as bad as Bobby, he didn’t blame the girl for staring. 

“What happened to you?” she asked, breathlessly.

“John here had to help me fix a friend’s boiler. Things got a little hairy for a bit,” Bobby stepped forward. He took his cap off and ran his hand through his hair in a perfect imitation of sheepishness.

Michelle opened her mouth, looking like she was going to question that story, but closed it again as her eyes went wide. She must have thought it was better to not know, because she began explaining what happened to her and Dean that night instead. “So, Deano here woke up after you left and he was pretty upset. Poor kid thought you weren’t coming home. He ended up getting sick on the couch, so I cleaned it up and gave him a bath. I tried to get him to go back to bed but he wanted to stay up until you got back. I hope that’s not a problem.”

As Michelle spoke, Dean tightened his grip around his father, whimpering as he buried his face in John’s aching neck. John rubbed the kid’s back as he listened, concern creasing his dirty face.

“Sorry for the trouble, Michelle,” he rasped, paying her an extra twenty dollars before she left.

Once the door was shut behind her, John patted his son’s hair and whispered, “How you feeling now, buddy?”

“A little better,” Dean sniffed, though he didn’t ease his grasp on the man.

Bobby cleared his throat. “John, we gotta talk.”

John knew he was about to learn the reason Bobby came back with him. He also knew his son wouldn’t like what he was about to ask him, so he wasn’t surprised when Dean’s grip tightened even more as he used the most soothing voice he could muster to say, “Dean, can you go lie down with your brother?”

Dean let out a little whimper and John could feel him shake his head against his throat. He turned to the man standing beside him and said, “I’ll just be a minute, Bobby.”

Bobby nodded and made his way over to the table in the dining room. John silently carried his son to the bedroom and sat down on his bed before prying the child off as gently as possible. He sat the tearful six-year-old on his knee and said, “Dean, I know you’re mad at me for leaving when I promised I wouldn’t. But if I hadn’t, that man in our dining room would have died tonight. He needed me more than you did. Do you understand that?”

The boy nodded again as fresh tears rolled down his cheeks. “I thought you were gonna die like Mommy. And I don’t know how to take care of Sammy by myself.”

John swiped at his son’s tear-stained cheeks, rubbing a little extra hard against the one that had been plastered to his neck because it had soot smudged across it. He knew what he was about to say would force the six-year-old to grow up way too fast. But he had to know, so John said, “I’m not always going to be around, Dean. I might end up dying like Mommy. But if that happens, you won’t have to take care of Sammy by yourself. That man that I helped tonight--you can call him Uncle Bobby--he’ll take care of you and Sammy. But you have to promise me something, Dean.”

The boy was pale again, but he nodded bravely and John said, “No matter what happens, your first job is to take care of your brother. If there’s something you can’t do, you can ask me or Uncle Bobby. But he’s your first responsibility, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy,” Dean whispered seriously.

John smiled tiredly and squeezed his boy before saying, “Alright, kiddo. Time for bed.”

Dean crawled into his bed next to Sammy and wrapped a protective arm around his little brother before John pulled the blankets up around his shoulders and left the room, closing the door gently behind him. Bobby was sitting at the table looking much older than he was with his head in one grimy hand, the other hand resting on the book that had saved their lives. John pulled out the chair across from him and slumped down, too, letting out a long breath. After a silent moment, the older man said, “You got a decision to make, Winchester.”

“What do you mean?” John asked. Speaking made his throat feel like it was being scraped through a cheese grater and he wasn’t sure how much longer his voice would hold out.

“I mean, you know what’s out there now. You got two options,” Bobby said, holding up the appropriate fingers. “You can either walk away and live a normal, apple pie life with your kids, or you can start huntin’.”

“I really don’t see much of a choice,” John started. But Bobby cut him off.

“Let me tell you a few things I learned about huntin’ before you jump into it. You start, and there is no gettin’ out. Ya do it for the rest of your life. And believe me, a hunter’s life ain’t long. You can’t just up and walk away once these things know you’re after ‘em. They’ll come find ya. And they’ll find your kids. If you start huntin’, no one in this apartment is safe, ya hear me?”

John nodded and Bobby went on. “Now, I know you’re lookin’ for revenge against whatever got your wife and I’m real sorry about what happened to ‘er. But you could find it and kill it tomorrow and you’d still be sucked into another hunt, and another, and another until one of ‘em finally claims ya. Or, you could search your whole life and never find the son-of-a-bitch. If that’s okay with you, then that’s fine with me. But before you go makin’ a hot-headed decision that’ll affect the rest of your life, think of those sweet little boys of yours. Are you willing to give up their normal life for a grudge?”

“It’s more than a grudge, Bobby,” John replied. “That son-of-a-bitch took away those boys’ normal lives when it killed Mary. The least I can do is get rid of the thing that screwed everything up. It’s the only way I know how to make it up to them.”

“Well, if that’s how you feel, I can’t stop ya,” Bobby said. “But just promise me you’ll give it some time. Tell you what? You think about it until your kids are better. If you still want to hunt after that, you can come up to my place and learn a thing or two. If you change your mind before then, well, it was nice meetin’ ya, John.”

“Yeah,” John nodded. “I’ll think about it.”

Bobby ripped a corner out of the title page of the book he’d set on the table in front of him and jotted something on it. “This is my address. If you decide to come, don’t bother callin’ first. Phone rings too much as it is.”

He stood and handed the piece of paper to John. The younger man stood, too and they grasped hands firmly.

“It was nice meeting you, Bobby,” John said.

“Yeah,” Bobby laughed. “Guess I’ll just take my books with me. Got some more research to do. Gotta kill and ifreet tomorrow.”

“You want some help?” John asked.

“Nah,” Bobby shook his head. “You just take care of those boys. Maybe I’ll see ya in a week or two.”

“Yeah,” John said. He helped Bobby Singer gather his books before closing the door behind him. Then he dug a bag of salt out of the kitchen cupboard and started pouring a line of it in front of the door, his mind already made up.


End file.
